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“It would be my pleasure,” he said softly.
Callie’s already tremulous insides did yet another nervous little flip. Why in God’s name did brash, bold men like Jason Kane turn her otherwise intelligent brain to mush?
“And what do you get out of this bargain?” she asked.
“Sweetheart, I should think that’s obvious.”
Her chin set stubbornly. She was determined to have him spell it out for her. “Not to me.”
His gaze heated another ten degrees. “Satisfaction,” he said in a slow, lazy way that gave the word more interpretations than Webster had ever dreamed of.
Callie sank onto the closest chair and tried to keep from reaching for a towel to fan her suddenly overheated skin. Her reaction to Jason Kane was disturbing. Very disturbing. She was actually tempted to go along with this bargain of his—her ingrained Middle American moral fiber be damned.
“Bad idea,” she muttered under her breath.
Jason chuckled. “But you are thinking about it, aren’t you?” He tucked a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Tell the truth.”
“No,” she lied very firmly, looking straight into those challenging eyes. “Never in a million years.”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, you are seriously overestimating your willpower or underestimating my powers of persuasion.”
It was quite possible, Callie thought with a sigh of heartfelt regret, that he was right.
* * *
Dinner wasn’t nearly the disaster it might have been, Callie decided as she sipped a glass of wine a couple of hours later. Jason definitely knew his way around a kitchen, even hers. He should have looked a little silly with one of her ruffled aprons tied around his middle, but he was far too masculine for that. The pink gingham had merely shrouded one of the more fascinating parts of his anatomy, a part Callie had no business looking at, anyway.
She jerked her gaze away only to encounter a pair of gray eyes dancing with amusement.
“See anything you like?” he inquired.
“I was just wondering whether that tomato sauce would come out in the wash,” she retorted.
“Should I strip down so you can find out?”
“You wish. Besides, it’s only on the apron.”
“Oh, I’ll bet if I looked hard enough I could find a splash or two on my shirt, maybe a little dab on my pants,” he said with a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m a messy cook.”
He sounded proud of the fact. “Is that the technique you always use to get out of your clothes right after dinner?” Callie asked.
“You have to admit it’s more original than saying I’m going to slip into something more comfortable. Women have been saying that for eons.”
“Maybe the women in your circle. When they’re not at work, my friends are almost always wearing the most comfortable clothes they own.”
He surveyed her denim cutoffs and oversize T-shirt. “So I’ve noticed. Is that the full extent of your wardrobe?”
“Actually, I was once one of Bloomingdale’s best customers. I have an entire closet filled with outrageously expensive power suits. However, I almost never wear them when sitting around the house, especially when I am not expecting company,” she added pointedly.
“Does that mean if I plan to take you to the theater tomorrow night, I should tell you now?”
“Unless you don’t mind being totally embarrassed by your date’s attire,” she said without thinking. When the implication of his question sank in, she promptly tensed. “Are you asking me to go to the theater?”
He paused as if to give the matter some thought, then nodded. “Sounded that way to me.”
“Why?”
“To see a play?” he suggested, as if he, too, were struggling to understand what had motivated the invitation.
Callie scowled at him. “I meant, why you and me?”
“Gee, that’s a tough one,” he taunted. “How about because I have tickets, I don’t have a date and you seem to be presentable enough.”
Disappointed despite herself by the mundane response, she muttered irritably, “That sort of flattery will win a girl’s heart every time.”
He grinned unrepentantly. “I told you I was going to play hard to get.”
Two could play at that game, Callie decided as a matter of self-preservation. Jason Kane clearly had ulterior motives up the wazoo, but there was no point in missing out on the theater because of them. She was confident she could hold her own in any battle of wits with him if she concentrated very hard on not falling prey to his charms.
“Comedy, drama or musical?” she demanded as if it truly mattered. The truth was, she loved it all. Broadway, off-Broadway, off-off-Broadway. She would have squandered half her income on tickets if she’d had the time to use them. She hadn’t been inside a theater, though, since she’d lost her job.
He tilted his head consideringly. “You strike me as a musical kind of gal.”
“Drama,” she retorted, to be perverse.
He plucked two tickets from his shirt pocket and held them out. They were for the Tony Award−winning drama currently on Broadway.
“Why did you get tickets for a drama if you thought I was a musical kind of girl?”
“Maybe I didn’t buy them for you,” he suggested mildly. “Or maybe I just knew you’d be perverse, say drama to spite me and I’d be able to catch you in your own trap.”
“Has anyone ever suggested to you that you have a devious mind?”
“Hourly,” he said with a note of pride. “And in most media reports describing my talents.”
“It’s not something I’d brag about if I were you,” she commented drily.
“So, do you want to have dinner before the theater or after?”
“Have I said I was going?”
“That’s a given. We’re talking about dinner.”
“After,” she said.
He grinned.
“Let me guess. You already have reservations for six.”
“Wrong. Reservations at Tavern on the Green for ten-thirty.”
Her expression brightened despite her attempts to control her reaction. “How did you know—”
“That it’s your favorite?”
“Never mind. Terry, of course.”
“In my business, it pays to do research,” he retorted, neither confirming nor denying his source.
“I thought you dealt with Nielsen and Arbitron, not the FBI.”
He chuckled. “Does the FBI have a file on your restaurant preferences?”
“If they’ve met Terry, they probably do,” she grumbled as Jason stood and held out his hand.
“Come on. Walk me out. I’d better let you get your beauty sleep.”
“Are you implying it will take eighteen hours or so of rest for me to look decent enough to be seen with you?”
“Actually, I was offering a polite excuse for my departure, even though I know you’d rather I stay here and ravage your body all night long.”
Indignation promptly roared through her. “Why you egotistical—”
“Tsk-tsk, is that any way to talk about the man who’s going to make you a star?”
“You’re not going to make me anything,” she shot right back in a determined effort to keep the game alive, even though she sensed it was all but over.
“We’ll see,” he murmured, leaving her still sputtering on the fourth-floor landing.
She leaned over the railing and shouted after him. “I’m a stockbroker, dammit!”
“You were a stockbroker,” he called from right outside Terry’s door, which immediately popped open.
“A lovers’ tiff?” Terry inquired.
“The first of many, I’m sure,” Jason agreed in a stage whisper designed to be heard in the rafters.
Callie wondered how much damage one of those many vases of flowers Jason had sent would do if she sent it crashing down on his head. Probably none. His head was clearly made of concrete.
It was a little late to change her mind and tell him not to bother showing up tomorrow night. Besides, why should she turn down a chance to see a play and to have an outrageously expensive meal at one of her favorite restaurants just to make a point? If he wanted to waste his money trying to bribe her into becoming an actress, so be it. It was probably all on his expense account, anyway. After the turnaround he’d accomplished at TGN, the network could afford it.
“Callie?”
At the sound of his voice, she peered over the railing once more. “What?”
“We’re out the door at seven-fifteen. I really hate to be late when the seats are front row center.”
“I am never late.”
“No last-minute primping.”
“I never primp.”
He grinned at that. “Can’t blame a man for hoping,” he said.
She would have grabbed the vase after that, but it was too late. He was already gone.
“Whew!” Terry murmured, moving into full view in the hall and gazing up at her. “Darling, if he weren’t so blatantly heterosexual, I might fall for him myself.”
“Maybe you should be ready at seven-fifteen tomorrow night, instead of me.”
Neil stuck his head out at that. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “If Terry spends any more time with people in television, his few remaining brain cells will rot. You go on your own date.”
“It’s not a date,” Callie declared.
“It sounded like a date to me,” Terry taunted. “Neil, what did it sound like to you?”
“Let’s see, you’re getting dressed up, going to the theater and then out to eat. Definitely a date,” he confirmed.
“A date is social, this is business,” Callie argued.
“Business is lunch at the Four Seasons,” Terry corrected. “A date is an attractive man asking an attractive woman to spend Saturday night with him.” He leered. “Al-l-l night long.”
Callie trembled despite herself. What worried her was the fact that Terry’s interpretation of Jason’s wicked intentions didn’t frighten her nearly as much as it should have. Somewhere deep inside she was apparently hoping that he was right.
6 (#uc47a5e72-ba83-553d-82f3-722658220266)
There had been a time in Callie’s life when she’d taken for granted an evening such as the one Jason had planned. Tonight, though, she felt as if she were back in college, about to go on a date—okay, Terry and Neil had convinced her that’s what it was—with the most exciting, mysterious man on campus.
She retrieved a simple teal silk slip dress from the back of her closet, dug out her sexiest lace panties and matching garter belt, a pair of her sheerest iridescent hose and a strappy pair of high heels.
She spent a full hour soaking in a fragrant bubble bath, then fiddled with her makeup for another hour. Yes, she was primping, but it had nothing to do with Jason’s wistful taunt. She had too much pride to go out tonight looking like a frump. The possibility of running into a former client, her ex-boss or her ex-husband and the bimbo dictated being dressed to the nines.
At seven-ten, Terry and Neil declared her efforts a success. At seven-fifteen, Jason looked as if he might faint dead away. All in all, she considered the reactions very rewarding. Bring on old Chad and her pedigreed replacement.
A half hour later she was wishing she’d said no to the entire evening. Nothing in her life had prepared her for an evening out with a man as eligible and recognizable as Jason. Before they’d even entered the theater, their picture had been snapped more times than hers and Eunice’s had been for the family album back in Iowa.
“Who’s the woman?” several photographers inquired as they snapped away.
They directed the question to Jason, as if she weren’t perfectly capable of responding herself. She found that almost as irritating as the rude, intrusive nature of their behavior. Her natural instinct for privacy was deeply offended, which was one very good reason why she couldn’t imagine taking a job on a daytime television show.
Within Our Reach might be failing, but it still had millions of fans and hundreds of promotional opportunities. She’d seen what had happened to Terry. Everyone wanted a piece of him for this event or that interview. Some might consider all that attention flattering. Just the thought of it made her shudder. She watched Jason closely to see how he intended to handle all of the probing questions about the new woman on his arm.
“You’ll have to wait to find that out,” he informed the photographers with the taunting skill of a true marketing genius. He slid his arm possessively around her waist, his hand resting an indecent inch or two below where it belonged. “I expect to have an announcement any day now.”
She glared at him, but he was oblivious. He was too busy answering another barrage of questions. She was smart enough to see that adjusting the placement of his hand would only draw attention to it. The next thing she knew her butt would be on the front page of some tabloid. She would get even, though. She really would.
“Can’t you at least tell us her name?” one man pleaded.
